Another Difficult Lesson
by samuraiheart
Summary: He has left the school, but you are still looking for answers. 2nd person POV of a random student after the events of Book 6. SPOILERS for HBP. A sort of philosophical look at students and teachers.


Title: Another Difficult Lesson

Author: Ravenaiya aka samuraiheart

Rating: G?

Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Professor Snape. But if I did...

SPOILERS for Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

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You're not supposed to be wandering the halls at this time of night and you know that, but roaming the corridors at odd hours has become much less difficult now that a certain bat-like professor has left the school. You feel a twinge of something in your chest at that thought, something twisting and cold. You would never admit it to anyone, but you wish he was still here. You hope you are not the only one.

You are trying not to think of him tonight, but you are failing as you have failed many times over the past few days. It is difficult not to wonder why he did what he did and where he might be now and if you will ever see him again.

You don't know exactly how you've ended up here once more, but you are not surprised. You have stared at this door too many times to count, but this is the first time you have stared at it with anything like fear. This is the first time you have seen it since he left.

The door is sealed. No one can enter. You have heard some of your other professors whispering about it in the halls. Word has gotten around that Professor Snape must have used a very powerful spell on the door to make sure no one could enter his office again. No one has been able to figure it out. You feel a small sense of satisfaction at that knowledge. Something you can't quite explain. You think some secrets should always stay guarded. Especially his.

You take several steps closer until you are just inches away from that door, staring hard at the rough grain of the dark wood. You know this is dangerous and that this is no place for you, but you wanted to see for yourself.

Then, you reach out, very slowly, hands shaking just the tiniest bit and touch the iron door handle. You hear the soft click of the latch and your eyes widen at the implications.

The door has been opened!

You wonder when this feat was accomplished and why you haven't heard about it before now.

You know you should turn back.

There is very little chance that anything of his remains inside. It has probably all been carted off to Auror inspection rooms or some other Ministry investigation area.

But you can't hold back. You just want to peer inside one last time.

You push the door a little more and it creaks open, the slow whining of the hinges the only sound in the narrow corridor.

The room inside is very dark. There are no torches lit within it. The glow from the hall casts a dim arc of light across the stone floor.

You think you hear a noise behind you and so you quickly step inside pulling the door closed. It takes an instant for you to realize how foolish this action is, but it is too late to remedy it now.

You are standing very still, holding onto the inside handle of the door tightly, the cold metal feel of it on your fingertips. You're pressed against that door, both heels touching the bottom of it, trying your best to slow your breathing.

You are staring, eyes wide, into the blackness in front of you. Only a very thin line of light shines from under the door, but you can't see anything past your shoes.

Finally, you gather up your courage, lift your wand and whisper the incantation "Lumos." Somehow, turning back now is no longer an option. It doesn't even cross your mind.

The tip of your wand casts a circle of glowing yellow light that illuminates most of the small room, leaving only the corners dark and distant.

The light sparkles off of the jars of specimens surrounding you. You think you see something in one of them move out of the corner of your eye, but somehow that doesn't frighten you. It almost makes you smile.

What does frighten you, however, is the pristine nature of this room and the fact that it appears to be relatively untouched since Professor Snape's flight from the school. You can see no evidence that there has been any kind of investigation in here at all. You had expected to see papers rummaged through, empty shelves and scattered books, but you see none of that. The various jars of preserved creatures are still ordered and neat on their back shelves. The books are straightened and in place, lined up in rows in the bookcase. The papers on Professor Snape's desk are stacked and sorted.

Your heart is beating very quickly in your chest and your wand hand is shaking enough to make the light in the room waver a bit.

Is it possible that you are the first one in here since that night?

How could that be?

The implications make your knees feel weak and you slide down to sit on the cold stone floor, back once more against the solid surface of the door.

Was it just luck that you were here to open the door at the very moment that it became unsealed?

Or was the door charmed to accept only you?

The thought sounds ridiculous in your head and you wave it away distractedly, frowning at yourself for even entertaining the idea.

You were just a student of his and not a particularly notable one at that.

You kept out of the way, mostly. You liked it that way. You weren't the kind of person who would raise your hand in class even when you knew the answer as plain as the daylight.

But something had allowed you to enter here, where apparently none of the professors had been able to so far.

Now that this mystery has presented itself and you have a task to figure out, your curiosity is enough to overcome the fear you felt only a moment before. You pull yourself to your feet and step toward Professor Snape's desk to examine it more closely.

You don't see anything out of the ordinary at first.

There are a few quills there, a small inkpot, some textbooks stacked to one side and a pile of student essays yet to be marked.

And then you spot a small piece of parchment, folded in four, with a red-gold feather on top of it.

You reach for the note, unfolding it carefully, as if it were fragile even as the parchment feels rough and sturdy in your hands. You clutch your wand awkwardly, holding it up to the paper as you read. You see his cramped careful handwriting there.

_**In the infinitesimally small chance that anyone has enough foolish hope to be able to reach this, I felt that I should leave you with something more than I did. Choices were made long ago and whether or not they turn out the way they should is something I cannot readily say at this juncture. I think I know who you are, but I won't say in case I am wrong. Just remember this one thing: lessons are not learned merely in classrooms. If you're still desperate enough to believe in me even after what has happened, I can offer you only this one word of advice: Don't.**_

_**It will be better for both of us. The truth hardly matters anymore when lives hang in the balance - and I don't just mean yours and mine. You do understand the weight of all of this, don't you? I expect so. Destroy this letter. Go now. The spell on the door was meant to keep everyone out. But I was afraid there would be someone who could get through. If it's true, that you still believe in me, you won't investigate further, you won't raise suspicions, you will follow this without question. For me.**_

The first time you read the words you don't take them in. You are awash in the wonder of even getting to read his words at all. But the second time, the meaning begins to sink in and you hold the letter to you closely when you are finished, clutching it against your chest.

You're not sure what to think of it - whether these words were really even meant for you at all, but you do know that you will follow his instructions and you will destroy the letter as soon as you get back to your dorm.

But, you won't forget him anytime soon.

You have had many professors over the years and you have learned something from each of them. Sometimes it was something so undeniably simple as how to cast a beginning charm and sometimes it was something much less concrete like learning not to believe everything you hear from a professor's mouth as was the case in Lockhart's DADA class on more than one occasion.

You know he's not perfect, Professor Snape, but you have learned a lot from him over the years. Much more than the art of potion-making or the proper way to ward off a Dementor. You have learned that there is a purity in knowledge and that it is that which you value so highly. You have seen that there is a starkness to it as well, a kind of leveling quality in it and that you can't hide behind fame or fortune. You gave him a precious piece of yourself every day you sat before a lecture, offering it up as a blank parchment to be written on, to be taught.

You think he knew that. You think you saw him smirk at you once or twice when someone asked a ridiculous question. You'd like to believe he knew you existed at all.

Until tonight, you had no reason to believe he did.

There were always suspiciously few marks on your papers. You know that some would see that as a blessing - that he had insufficient qualms with your conclusions to leave a nasty note or correction. But if he had, at least you would have had more to remember him by, or something to ask him about after class, or some idea of how he saw you.

You're not in love with him or anything remotely close.

You're not even his friend.

But you would like to think there is some other option - one that gets across what you feel for him. You would like to think he knows. Knew. That you respected him. That you cared about him. That you enjoyed being in his presence. That you hope to see him again one day.

That, through the years, you have learned to take every word he has ever said to you as absolute fact. That despite your best attempts, you have never found fault with anything he has taught you.

That you believe him still, even after he has apparently done something so horrible.

That you would still smile at him, that small half-smile you graced him with so many times during lectures on potions ingredients and dark arts theories.

That you want more than anything to believe he still has something to teach you.

That you know now that one of the most important lessons he has left you with is that some people will never be able to see past the surface of things. That you can't rely on anyone's words to ensure their trust of you because some people will always harbor secret doubts about your character and they will lie to your face and they will twist your words and actions to fit their understanding of you before they will ever question their own conclusions.

You cling to those lessons like a lifeline.

And you know that nothing is as it seems.

And you wait for him to return.

The End

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_Author's notes: I've wanted to write a 2nd-person Harry Potter fic for quite some time. I'm not sure this one worked out quite how I envisioned it, but I hope you enjoyed reading it. The narrator here is not anyone in particular, but rather a random student probably in his or her 7th year. I do think it's possible to read it as pretty much anyone you like, though. I'd love to know what you thought. _


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